I have officially speed walked/jogged/run/whatever at least 3 miles a day on the treadmill for three days in a row now, & I Am Kicking Ass With Christmas Boots!!!What a great feeling!!

I’m young, not at all overweight & I don’t *look* like I’m in bad shape – a fact which inspires within me a sense of real gratefulness, as well as a karmic expectation that I’m suspiciously overdue for an episode in which I just stroke the f#ck over next week. “Hmmm, she’s jiggly… *tooooo0* jiggly.” Cue Inception sound effect.

I loathe exercise, but this is a new year & I’m planning to get my shit together a little bit better. My ability to procrastinate could hold up Charon himself for days…
“Cool it, Char- I just need to find my lipstick. …K. I’m also not getting on any boats without snack packs. Where can I find some Nabs in this joint?? Oh, & I’ll be needing to run & go grab a couple magazines…”

so I’m really proud of myself for making some kick ass moves & getting off to a great start! I think most of us usually tend to give ourselves more criticism than praise & most of us could really benefit from a few more pats on the back from ourselves. It’s healthy, and the better & more balanced we feel within ourselves, the better we are for those around us. So, on that note, I just wanted to take a minute to trumpet- and hopefully spread- some positivity & self love.

And actually it’s not my ass at all, I just adore the flowery sense of feminine fragility evoked by that expression. But seriously, my hands look like a couple “wing slices” of dry-ass, roasted, Thanksgiving turkey made by Aunt Bethany- a once smart, attractive, young woman who is now senile as shit & riding the razor edge of blind & deaf- who forgot she had that 6 pound beast in the oven overnight, cooked the holy shit out of it, & brought it to Thanksgiving anyway because she doesn’t know any better anymore.

This thing’s beggin’ for mercy. Much like my hands.

And do treat yourself to the knowledge that they’re rougher to the touch than they are on the eyes. Sending “shit-outs” to winter …& Aunt Bethany.

I’m up later than I should be and my mind wanders to those random places it does when one engages in things like sleep deprivation.

I f#cking HATE babysitting!!!!
“whine, whine, I need more white grape juice. It has to be white. That’s the wrong sippy cup, I don’t want this oneee, it has to be Ariel and it has to be whiteeee.”

“Listen, baby bigot, it’s the exact same shit & you can’t HAVE more white grape juice because you’re already treating this establishment like a goddamn bouncy house & I’m on the brink.
You can have like an eye dropper full of grape shit mixed into a glass of water in whatever cup, old soup can or Tupperware I can find, & while you glare at me, begrudgingly sipping like a first world ingrate, you may also reflect on your momentous luck in my belief that your intolerable ass would fetch less money on the Cambodian black market than your parents will give me if you’re still alive when they get home. Don’t make me start rounding up.”

I’m just not a fan of being in the company of children for more than an hour or so in general, so babysitting has never been my jam, but BATH TIME is a special hell unto itself.

Anybody feel me??? It’s the Worst!!!

This one particularly grievous little Piranha by the name of Olivia (if that’s even her real name) who I used to nanny takes the cake, though. Bath time: do you want help in there or not? Mind you, bath time is the time at which either her parents or the sweet release of death are due to be walking in the door at any minute.

Maybe I’m just an awkward person, but I feel like being around any kids over the age of about 5 who are naked and not related to you is uncomfortable as shit. As I’ve amply expressed, I have no sort of personal interest, excitement, particular affection, or any other form of pleasant feelings toward kids, but I feel like the general scene just begs “Chris Hansen, Dateline NBC” to waltz in at any second, kicking off an epic “it’s not what it looks like” scene.
…I digress. This little asshole can never decide if she wants help in the tub or not. Her parents just say to make sure she gets a bath. Being of the sentiments I am, I run the water for her, make sure she has everything she needs, then back out slowly, closing the door behind me and advising “I’ll be right outside if you need anything.” No luck, no peace. Ever.

First, she says in no uncertain terms that she can do it herself & she does not want help AND she wants her privacy. Excellent! 3 minutes later… “Thalia?! I think I need help!” Great…
And there begins a tenuous shit show that may last 45 minutes or a lifetime (can’t say for certain because it always ends with me sporting more wrinkles & less hair than I had at commencement) in which this little d-bag oscillates continuously between begging me to help her wash her hair & yelling like a wronged banshee for me to get out & leave her alone.
She’s in that sort of “fuck you for the sake of fuck you” stage. Don’t get me wrong- this little gremlin adores me & never wants me to go home, but she’s in this stage in which she thrives on unnecessarily/aggressively asserting herself at random. I suppose she’s just discovering the ferocious power of autonomy for which she has my full support. But seriously, kid, do you Have to pick the one time you’re required to be starkers & I’m required to be around you to unleash hell?

Do you have any idea how insanely awkward that is?!?!?!!! And more importantly, how insanely awkward that LOOKS?! I was always just waiting for the glorious day when her dad would arrive at precisely the right moment to hear resounding shrieks throughout the house for me to get out of the bathroom, & enter a scene of his child naked in the bathroom, yelling at the babysitter to leave her alone.
Even now, I’m sure if I were to brush my hair while thinking about it, the brush would emerge looking like someone had glued a wig on it & my head would be left cold, breezy & looking like a bald cap.

“nah, I’m cool”

….. Babysitting. Jesus F Baby!!! Ya know?!

If anyone’s up for sharing, it would do my prematurely aged heart good to hear tales of similar hells.

Can you make me work in this hotel all by myself on Thanksgiving Day? Yes.

Can you stop me from rooting around where the continental breakfast items are kept, locating the industrial size bag of Lucky Charms, fixing myself a whopping bowl comprised solely of all the marshmallows which I’ve now carefully plucked out by hand, leaving only a dry, flavorless wasteland of an excuse for cereal in the bag? No. No, you cannot.

It occurred to me this afternoon that the members of Westboro Baptist Church are like a bunch of toddlers in their Freudian anal fixation stage. Except they never grow out of it.
They are obsessed with these nutso concepts to the point that not only does this obsession dictate their narrow existences, but their blind servitude often causes the mongering of these concepts to [fairly] come off as completely nonsensical. (They are surely breeding themselves stupider.)

I’ve noticed their constant jam is to construct their pitiful, limp, micro-dick, little signs out of an arbitrary string of hot words that ultimately come out to sad/ “wtf”, at best.

Take these gems for example. Don’t be shy to freakin’ FEAST your eyes on these little slices of egregion; I assure you they are real.

Ok, I did make up the word “egregion” (noun form of egregious), but wtf is a Bitch Burger?! Lemonade? Wait, I didn’t even know that delightfully refreshing beverage was mentioned in the bible. When did lemonade make the shit list?!

And then some of their handiwork is just plan confusing…

There’s another WBC pic of them holding a sign that says “YOU Hate God.” So, wait- does God hate me, or do I hate God? …I’m confused, cuz I didn’t even know about this

(back left) What’s God’s rod? And why are we talking about rods? Doesn’t that seem unnecessarily “fag-like”? Is this a subtle attempt at coming out, or did that little gem just bust the f#ck out of the closet by itself?

Well, looks like Whitney’s in hell. Damn.

Aaaaanddd the queen of England has secretly been the queen of fags the whole time!

I came across a badly injured rabbit in the road today and it looked like it still had some fight left, so I hopped (pun deliciously and obnoxiously intended) out of my car, scooped it up, wrapped it up in a fuzzy, purple robe, and took it home.

There will be no inquiries regarding why I was rolling around with a spare robe in my car; I like comfort, sue me.

Old girl was riding shotgun so I could keep tabs on the situation, and also because she called it before I could open the door. I love animals, but I am so horrifically aware of the movements of tiny, erratic ones (like BATS, God Forbid!) and I was mildlypetrified that she was going to hyper-animate and attack me at any given moment. I sucked it up and drove home as fast as humanly possible.

As of now, she resides in my kitchen with ample water and a Golden Corral’s worth of veggies, waiting for fate to make its decision. …I hope she makes it; either way, she’s too precious not to share.